Permanent Falling
by Reminscees
Summary: "Sometimes the memories burned behind his eyes. [...] America wasn't invested in England at all. He was simply utterly in love, bound to him, and there was no escaping, he just kept falling into him, sinking into him." A discussion of Alfred and Arthur's, or America and Britain's, relationship. So it goes.


Permanent Falling

Nothing England had ever achieved in his life he ever fell into, stormed head-first into, unarmed and unaware, not having a carefully thought-out and precise plan. He wasn't like that- England, Great Britain, the British Empire simply _wasn't_ like that.

Neither was America, he _always_ knew his goal- But in a naturally different way, he was mentally pregnant with imaginary wisdom and misplaced certainty, of misconceptions, too, about the world and his place in it, and his relations with others. He thought the world hated him, and in the next moment, that they loved him- There were no in-betweens.

Arthur had a similar stance to the world, a take-it-or-leave-it sort of man. He never tried to hard to do anything, really, not anymore- America did, though. He was younger, youthful, and too damn hopeful. England was tainted and worn out, apathetic, due to the years he had on his back and the memories he still saw whenever he closed his eyes. Sometimes they burned.

His scars burned too, England had a lot of scars, the newer of which didn't really heal anymore, it was the war, he would always shout out as clarification and certainty for both of them, as soon as it would be over, he'd be fine.

Expect, he knew he was lying.

Mainly to himself.

England did that a lot, America found, he lied to himself more than to others, he was honest, but not really, which made him cruel. If he didn't like America's speech at the meeting, he would tell him so. Maybe those moments were the times when he lied, too, but America didn't know. If he hated the way America wore his tie, he would tell him so. He used to fix it for him, but not anymore. It seemed like he didn't care. When he asked England about it, all he did was scoff and told him to '_shape up, there's a war on, in case you forgot.'_

He would be lying to himself if he said that he cared whether England was telling the truth or not.

But England did care.

He cared so much it scared him, and he had so much love hidden in his heart that it hurt him. It hurt to look at America- The way his smile was forced and he had bags under his eyes from the raids in the morning. He was tired. He knew he was tired, and England knew it too.

He understood.

America always thought England had this great gift of knowing what America was thinking and understanding them, he was so amazing at _understanding_ what others were doing. When he worked at Bletchley, decoding and having a sickening fabulous time kicking Germany in the spine of his military, air force, navy, and truthfully any even slightly war-like related movement, he spoke perfect German with a sneer and bright eyes. He knew what he was doing, and was good at it, too, because he was a precise sort of guy, America thought, and his mind backfired to memories of England in his navy and privateer ships. It was all just ordinary boats to America.

America has his planes. He liked the sky, he liked the freedom he had up there, the independence. England remarked that it was probably some kind of messed up metaphor.

Every time America looked down at England's proud island while flying out of a RAF base up north, he felt nothing but pride and adoration and his heart clenched painfully at the sight of the green fields. When he told England so, in a shy moment at the docks before England would board his naval ship off to the North Sea, England just stared at him, then turned and sighed, head looking down at his feet and then stretching his sight out to the sea. He muttered something about how blue it was, but not blue enough, for his shores were far darker than America's. America laughed and said that it was because of the climate, _'You can't compare the shores of Florida with good ole England!'_.

England stared and left him there, hair blowing in the salty winds, not breeze, because nothing about England was half-assed or gentle, not even the weather.

America pondered on whether he had missed some important coded metaphor he had been attacked with by England.

He did.

England talked and did everything according to his manners, he was cryptic and complicated and had layers and layers and _layers_ of barriers covering his emotions and raw feelings, especially his heart. America knew it was pure and so full of love that it scared England. And not many things scared him.

England coughed up blood after every battle and America cared for wounds- Well, tried to, if he let him stay, which, as the years passed on, occurred more and more often. Most of the time, though, _England_ would grab the large tweezers and iodine and bandages and America would sit, shirtless and a little embarrassed, while England took out the bullets, one by one, and threw them into a used soup can, with quick movements. America would always try to hide the strangled shouts of pain. He would always fail.

He never could hide anything from England, anyway, it was the war, and they shared a lot of things. Often, they shared a bed- usually not sexually, _that_ they did on ammunition crates in the dark, fully clothed, with splinters jamming in America's palms, but it was _worth it_. They were too tired to do anything at night, and much preferred to sleep. Sometimes, America would have nightmares, and England too, although neither admitted it, they were too proud. The nightmares America had would be different than England's. England would dream of bombs and burning and death and screaming, and America would also dream of death and screaming, and of failure. He was so scared of failure he could cry. But heroes didn't cry, England reminded him, while holding the sobbing man in his arms, lying together in a single army cot.

It was difficult at times, being together- When they had to follow the raid schedule, for example. Americans during the day, English during the night. England would slump into the bed an hour before America would have to get up. All he did was grab him and breathe on his neck. He smelt of sweat and petrol and raid, but distinctly of _England_. America always was shy to leave in the morning. He didn't like raids during the day, he would have clear skies and could see the damage. Sometimes, on a good day, he could see some scattered bodies- Bits and pieces. It hurt to look at it. Maybe France was right, maybe he was just a foolish, spoilt boy, not fit for diplomacy but he could hold a gun, so ready to go to war.

Neither of them liked wars.

They weren't even sure they liked _each other_\- That they were honest to God together, in love, hitched, whatever. England was angry all the time but apathetic all the same, and had messy hair and a skinny frame and too dark eyebrows on his pale face, which was scarred and showed his dark circles under his eyes.

He had nice eyes, though, so much was true.

They stood out nicely against his tainted uniform.

Green.

The first time America had fucked him, ages ago, near the end of the last century, in _China_, of all places, high on opium and neither of them cared. The revolution was _so_ 1700s.

All he looked at was England's eyes, straight through them, trying to find the meaning of the universe in them, because England has such power and grace that he seemed like he knew _exactly_ was the meaning of everything was.

The second time, it was different, both had been drunk and one thing led to another, in the 1910s at America's New Hampshire estate, and then the war came.

America was next to England in the trenches.

Needless to say, they became dangerously close and invested in each other all over again. It frighten both of them more than any grenade or gas attack could.

As soon as it ended, it seemed as though their _thing_ had ended, for good, perhaps, but America was never good at figuring out his emotions, nor at letting something that _was_ his go. He was, as England often put it, a 'possessive fool'.

America agreed. He didn't let go of England.

Both were glad that he didn't. Neither knew why.

But they didn't need to, not really. It was just a good fuck, on both sides, and it didn't have anything to do with emotions or any diplomacy. England wasn't France- He fucked just for fucks' sake. It stopped when America became isolated and neutral again, and neither minded, really, because what should he have said? The truth? It was too much to ask.

With another war in Europe starting up, England turned his attentions elsewhere and let his hopes of America go. He didn't need anyone, anyway, he was still an Empire, still powerful. Emotions were too human, and no one knew better than England that life was frail and nothing was permanent. Expect that _they_ were permanent- It just happened _naturally_, America entered the war, with a feeling in his stomach he didn't understand, and they fell right back into each other. And they kept on falling.

If America was supposed to not care about Europe, why was he so invested in England?

_Why? _

It haunted him.

He never gave up.

It came to him on a clear day, over Dresden. He was bombing the city to rubble and flames. It hurt his eyes to look at it. As soon as he returned back to the base, he saw England, who had landed minutes before him, and ran up to him. He embraced him tightly. It burned the wound on England's side. It hurt the scar on America's back.

England didn't reply, he just hitched his breath and hugged him back, just as tight, and he felt secure. The worry that had been building up in his stomach without his consent was released, all at once. He let out a coughed up laugh. It was almost a sob. America smiled. He pushed their foreheads together and looked him straight in his eyes.

They were green.

So _green_.

Beautiful.

America wasn't invested in England at all. He was simply utterly in love, bound to him, and there was no escaping, he just kept falling into him, _sinking_ into him. Nations couldn't love, not really, but it was something like it, wasn't it? It felt right. It felt like he belonged. It felt horrible and wonderful at the same time.

He wanted to cry and laugh and just _breathe_ with England.

He stroked his thumbs over England's face. England closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

Falling.

Falling deeper.

Still falling.

:::

_This is dumb but it is cohesive, in a way. I had no idea where I was going with it, but, my friends, we have walked in a circle. The drabble has a __theme__. GASP. I always liked the idea that the whole relationship is darker and more realistic, especially since they're nations and crap. _RobinRocks_ is obviously queen in this section, but _vinnie2757_ is less popular and brilliant too. I love the way they portray their relationship, it's just some amazing writing. I am a shy fangirl of your work, mysterious _vinnie2757. (_I'm sorry about language in this one... I just didn't want to use dumb innuendo or """make love """". Gross._)


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